


Barriers

by celluloid



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Gore, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloid/pseuds/celluloid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody ever really wants to let go. (Loosely based on W.H. Auden's poem, <i>Funeral Blues</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barriers

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Star Trek kink meme back in the summer of 2009.

Stopping the flow of blood is impossible. From the dozens of minor cuts and scrapes along his limbs and torso, it hardly seems like a problem; those are treatable. He could fix them himself. The skin is rubbed a little raw, maybe, and in some parts it might glisten a little brighter because the blood is that much closer to being pushed up to the surface, but it’s nothing nobody has experienced before on at least one occasion or another. Hardly worth making a fuss about because a dermal regenerator could take care of these injuries without any problems and leave absolutely no damage in its wake.

Blood may bubble up to the surface a little bit, but it’s not much. There are a few droplets that turn into small streams running down, but they really are just faint trails, not making it very far before gravity stops working in their favour and they don’t get a real chance to create paths and mar the skin because there isn’t nearly enough for that. It dries harmlessly and it’s nothing that a little rubbing wouldn’t clear up.

Some of it is slightly solidified, at the edges of the less fatal and yet still bleeding cuts, and it’s almost beautiful in a way, these solid misshapen spheres of red with the light reflecting off of them. Just one little press with a finger and it’ll turn into a spatter, albeit a small one, because there’s so little of it.

And yet it’s impossible to stop the bleeding. Maybe there’s internal damage; it’s more than likely, really, but he doesn’t have any materials at his disposal with which to check. And even if he did, it’s not like he’d be able to use them. He wouldn’t be able to get anyone else to use them, either, because nobody else is around.

He honestly has no idea how he got here, why he’s alone, what exactly happened. That could be due to his fading prowess of consciousness or because even on the way here, when still fully physically intact, he didn’t know what was going on. Not a stupid stunt, because he doesn’t do those. He doesn’t endanger himself without good reason. There’s no reason to do something like that.

Air fills his head and the sensation is frightening, even as his grasp on reality slips and he’d turn his head around to look but he fails at finding the strength to do so. He keeps his eyes open but his vision is partially blocked by the stripes of the folds of a curtain of red, inconsistent and swirling and they’re ever-present. The rest of his world looks normal, but he can’t place it. And even if he could, it’s still streaked with red, and it really shouldn’t be.

He can shut his eyes but it’ll still be there and he can feel it seeping around, moving inside of them, and it’s just easier to keep his eyes open, because there’s the chance a welcome sight will come by. Or quite possibly sounds.

Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought he was, because he can faintly hear something, something strained and desperate and barely even there, hardly able to make those noises. All he can produce is something guttural and it’s pathetic and unnatural and not at all what he wants to hear inside of his head, so he doesn’t even try it; he doesn’t test the theory.

There’s blind groping because his neck is immobile and he’s being forced to stare upwards for as long as he keeps his eyes open. Maybe the natural sky colour is red. Maybe that’s what this all is. He has no idea. 

He can feel himself lying on the dusty, rocky surface, but he’s working on fixing that because underneath him, what he can still feel, it’s growing warmer, and softer, and stickier. It doesn’t take a genius or a doctor to figure out that he’s lying in a pool of his own blood, and that it’s growing. It’s not enough for the small cuts and scrapes and scratches to have made.

But it was so much nicer to focus on those because if that was where all of the stinging pain was coming from, then he’d be able to trick himself into thinking everything was going to be okay. The blood from his body is enough to dispel the illusion, or whatever it was. It’s much harder to ignore the long, deep slashes decorating the rest of him so violently, where the blood really bubbles to the surface. Except it doesn’t bubble; not here. Here it roars through. While the bubbling blood could have been beautiful in its own right, like a gentle current, the river’s roaring is much less so and it’s completely the wrong colour.

The wounds crisscross, and they’re wholly separate all at once, punctuating further into him, and the idea of internal bleeding was retarded because very little of him is left unexposed. If he could just lift his head he’d be able to check himself. He can feel the bits of him missing, from extremities to limbs, as though they were still there. It’s possible that they are but considering the air he can feel on his ribcage, it’s unlikely. 

Or it could all be nothing. There’s hardly anything to say about the matter. He can taste the coppery tones and smell the gore starting to rot in the sun.

Several things happen at once.

Sound comes rushing back to his ears, full force, and despite the ripping winds he can hear ragged breathing beside him. It could be his own but it’s not. He knows this because this is when he blindly reaches, and makes brief contact with another hand, before both slip away due to the blood they’re both encased in. It’s from two different sources.

They try again and he feels his heart pumping itself out and ramming to burst free from the already horribly damaged tissues holding it back as he exerts himself, finds that strength, and grabs on to a finger with two of his own and refuses to let go. His weakening body forces him to, but the blood has run together and it’s stuck and all it takes is another light shift of his arm and sudden movement from the other one and suddenly they’re closer.

He lets his own arm fall limp, palm facing upwards, fingers curling up towards the sky lightly, not so much holding anymore but there’s skin against skin and blood against blood and there’s a pool of blood in that hand, and it’s not his, because his never had the chance to pool there. His fingertips are stained red but it’s two different kinds of red.

And maybe he’s just seeing things, and it’s not like his vision can be trusted now anyway, but he thinks he sees the other hand in similar condition, mirroring his own, and the sight of it makes him want to smile a little.

It’s all within a matter of seconds that drags out because he can’t comprehend fierce, desperate actions in their timeframes too well right now, but he can hardly be blamed for it. Along with the rushing in his ears and the winds’ violent tugging at his remaining garments come sudden shouts, clear and precise and commanding, like they know what they’re doing, but there’s a great deal of panic there at the sight of them. And still, the ground underneath him shakes with the pounding of footsteps.

-

He sees brief flashes of it. It’s white and clean and he fades in and out, but always against white. He continues to see red but it’s juxtaposed with the cleanliness of white. He knows it doesn’t make sense, but he can feel it. The wind digging into his insides has been replaced by human hands doing their damndest to put everything back into place, use the technology they have to the best of their advantage. Collect the entrails in a hurry and scoop them back in the body because where they were before was not where they belonged.

Even without the holes in his body, though, the massive amount of blood loss is a problem. One that can’t be so easily fixed and one that will cause complications down the line, and not much farther down the line, because his heart won’t still.

He wonders if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He should know this but he feels as though if he were to reach up and feel for the top of his head, at some point, he could polish his own skull clean and neat and shiny, so it’s not exactly his fault that it escapes him. Really, he thinks that despite the inconsistent flashes, the unidentifiable faces he sees through red-streaked and ever-open eyes, it’s pretty amazing that he’s this lucid.

On the one hand, it means he’s still alive. On the other, it means he’s still pumping blood out through cut arteries. On the other, it means something that much bigger in a metaphorical sense, announcing his presence and lingering soul, fastened to his body, still on the same plane of existence as everyone he knows who cares about that particular organ and all it represents. On the other, myocardial infarctions are bad.

The sound is still present as he hears orders being barked, rapid voices and a general panic all around his body, a giant rush drilling itself throughout his head and reverberating against his skull, back and forth as the directions flow, but even if he could reach out with his arm again, just a little, he’d have nothing to grab on to.

-

It’s some time later when he finds himself in Georgia. The sun beats down mercilessly, and he finds it necessary to stop and seek out the shade of a tree flourishing. The weather could be considered beautiful otherwise. The sky is open and bright blue and everything feels free and warm. Birds chirp and flowers bloom and even then, the leaves above him are full and green while the grass below him grows tall and soft.

He leans his back against the tree bark, feeling the harsher scrape of it as he slides down. He sits on the grass, crushing a bit of it, and it’ll be a little flattened when he stands back up, but for now, nobody minds. His back is rested against the trunk and his feet are flat on the ground, knees raised, his legs forming a right angle if one looks at it with the correct tilt of one’s head. He’s upright and he’s looking around, eyes open and clear and perfect, taking in the expanse.

A peach is tossed from hand to hand, and he knows that it’s such a goddamned cliché for this state, but he couldn’t really help himself. It occupies his arms, smooth as ever, giving him something mindless to focus on as he rotates his head to the greatest extent that he can and looks across the countryside in all clarity. It’s all green and very full of life, which amuses him in a sick way, but he’s allowed to feel sick if he wants to. 

Some inclines, the occasional farmhouse, maybe, and a neverending expanse of blue. He stops tossing the peach back and forth and takes a bite from it, knowing the sweet taste exists and yet unable to do much with it. He stands, pushing one hand back up against the tree to bring himself back up, and leaving the shade, the peach dangling loosely from his other hand still.

Stepping out into the sun reminds him of the heat, and rather than being so brutal like he’s been told by others, he finds it merely cozy and comforting. It fills him and would make him want to go to sleep, would make him drowsy if he had the will to feel that way anymore. Rest is impossible now. A calm state of mind doesn’t exist anymore, but it has its chances out here, as long as this sort of weather keeps up.

He might be able to find it out here, but he can’t stay here forever. For now, though, he’s going to enjoy it, so he continues his easy stroll in the countryside, the closest to content he’s been in some time.

-

He’s been alone for a little while now. Nobody has tried to approach him; not on the subject, not on anything, and he appreciates that, even though it might come off as unbefitting reclusive behaviour. It’s night and he’s still out in wild, unoccupied fields, nobody else around to disrupt the isolation.

The stars are out and he ponders over them, that he really should be getting back to them sometime soon, but for now, he’s got a great excuse to still be on the ground. Nobody can argue with him. At first there was an attempt but that hadn’t gotten too far, so he’s just been left to his own instead. For how long, though, he isn’t sure. Maybe when he’s ready he’ll be able to go back. Until then, the world is his, and his alone.

Clouds are present in the night sky as well, hardly the white he’d seen earlier, but still bright enough to be a noticeable contrast to the deep hues of blue already there. It’s a little more dulled here, though. It’s much colder as well, not that he can really complain, because while the heat had been a nice change of pace, it was only temporary, and he knew that. He knows he isn’t really going to feel warm ever again.

He has his arms folded across his chest, his head tilted back, his stance neutral and easy as he shivers a little in the light wind that ruffles his hair. Off to the side are a couple of buildings he knows pretty well, but other than them, it’s pretty much empty and there’s no disruption to the view. There’s no disturbance aside from the footsteps he can hear behind him, approaching, calm and measured and natural.

He doesn’t change his stance, doesn’t turn his head, just lets the person step up beside him, just slightly behind him, and doesn’t acknowledge him. He already knows who it is. The person already knows who he is. There’s no need.

It’s silent for a little bit before the newcomer finds his voice. 

“So, this is it, then?”

“Yeah,” he replies, softly, voice sounding a little hoarse from lack of use. Time hasn’t stopped for him, much as it should have. 

“It’s nice.”

He smiles, softly, still not turning around but it’s the first time he’s done such an action in a while. “Sure, now it is. You didn’t live here, though.”

“Nope. Missed my chance on that,” and it’s just like old times again.

“Didn’t grow up here either.”

“Would that have prevented you from returning?” the first person he’s spoken to in so long asks.

The only move he makes is to lower his head and rub at his neck. “I think I’ve been stuck in that position for too long,” he mutters, moving his head around in a circle and trying to stretch it, breathe some life back into it.

“Mmm,” his companion digs up the sound from his throat, low and guttural. “You were never too good at looking after yourself.”

“That’s what I have you for.”

“Had.”

He shrugs helplessly. “Yeah, well, I never liked to pay too much attention to tenses. They’re very limiting.”

“They still help for clarification, though.”

It’s silent and the footfall is soft on the short grass as Bones takes a step forward, bringing himself up alongside Jim. Jim turns his head over to the right and smiles softly, lazily, doing not much more than quirking his lips upwards a little and not showing his teeth. They’re still just as white and perfect as ever, it’s just not necessary.

Bones returns the gaze but he doesn’t smile or do much else. He just stares and Jim basks in it before turning his head forwards again, only catching Bones from his peripheral vision when he glances over in that direction. Bones fixates him for a moment longer before he sighs and looks forwards as well.

“I would have come here,” Jim says, shattering the quiet, “if you’d wanted me to.”

“Probably,” Bones replies. “Iowa has its charms.”

Jim kicks at the ground beneath his feet lightly, the small grin still on his face. “Yeah? I’m glad to hear that you think so.” He pauses. “I visited your home, too, you know.”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah,” Jim nods. “It’s not nearly as hot as everyone says it is.”

The two of them continue to stand in silence. Bones’ arms cross his chest now while Jim’s lay limply by his sides. They’re exposed but intact, and that can make all the difference, it seems. Bones, on the other hand, is wearing long sleeves and appears to be less affected. Finally Jim turns back to look at Bones, taking in his profile.

Bones glances back at him. “Of course it’s not,” he replies, finally. “It’s not my fault that they can’t handle a little heat.”

“Exactly,” Jim agrees.

“You’re dead, Jim.”

“I know.”

He isn’t actually cold, but it doesn’t hurt to shiver a little. If time hasn’t stopped for him and he’s been clinging to the illusion for months on end, then he’s just going to keep on acting it out. There isn’t much else for him to do. Jim studies Bones’ features, notes the imperfections in his skin whereas he has none anymore. “But that begs the question,” he speaks up. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure,” Bones says, the wind ruffling his hair a little, messing it up and dropping his bangs to a spot not quite at his eyes, but it’s getting close. 

“Do you plan on staying?” Jim asks, turning away and looking back at the expanse of field.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Bones replies.

He shifts his stance, slightly, but doesn’t make any moves to step closer to Jim. The two are fairly close already, but aren’t touching. There’s a thin slice of air separating them, even though their body language is mimicking one another’s, their eyes falling across the same sights, the breeze affecting them in the same ways. Bones takes a breath, letting the country air fill his lungs. Jim doesn’t.

“You probably shouldn’t,” he finally says.

Bones smirks. “Still putting everyone else above yourself, huh?”

Jim smiles tightly back. “Like you’re one to talk,” he says. “You do that all the time. That’s exactly why you should go back.”

“Maybe,” Bones muses.

“No,” Jim replies, his voice shifting into that authoritative tone he still remembers. “Definitely. I don’t want to see you again for a long fucking time.”

Bones looks downwards, his chin resting in his hand in a way that Jim also remembers with a great deal more fondness. “That’s out of my hands at the moment,” he says. “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

“Christ,” Jim mutters, rubbing at his temples with his thumb and index finger, shutting his eyes as he does so. “You fucking idiot. What did you do?”

“Just a cocktail,” Bones answers, still staring thoughtfully at the ground. “If they find me quick enough I’d say I have a pretty good chance.”

“What the fuck possessed you to do something like that?” Jim snaps, and injecting a little emotion into his being might have felt nice under different circumstances. 

Bones’ frown rights itself for a moment. “’Possessed?’” he quips. “That’s an odd choice of words.” When he looks back up, though, Jim is glaring at him, fury evident in his features, and Bones shrugs in response. “There wasn’t anything left.”

“Bullshit. There’s more out there than there is here.”

“Not really,” Bones says. He reaches out to Jim, who steps forwards, and Bones lightly touches the side of Jim’s face, which Jim reluctantly leans into, though he keeps his eyes open and angry, meeting Bones’ own stare head-on. “I haven’t been able to find anything.”

Jim turns his head into Bones’ palm and kisses it lightly. “You will if you try hard enough,” he murmurs into the hand before pulling away and closing the distance between then, chest pressing against chest, noses nearly touching. He feels almost airy from the contact. “There’s always something.”

Bones eliminates the rest of the space, bringing their lips together. It’s soft and hardly conveys the emotions starting to come back to the surface, but it still works all the same. “Not this time,” he says when they pull apart. 

Jim reaches out, placing his hand on the back of Bones’ head and edging them closer together again. “I don’t buy that,” he says, and this time there’s a little more heat to it as mouths actually open up and exploration of known parts can be revisited after so long. It’s as if he can feel the exhilaration again, though really, it’s nothing new. Everything is exactly as he remembers, despite the stretch of time, the lack of contact or any feeling.

“Well you should,” Bones growls, taking a step back. “I was basically just a walking corpse. You got your hero’s burial and I sat by the side and took it but it’s been a long fucking time now and I still can’t feel a goddamned thing.” He leans back in and there’s aggression now, his blood coming to life, roaring inside of him and teeth clash and he bites at Jim’s lower lip. “I’m not going back to that.”

“But I want you to,” Jim says, and he’s sure that if it was still flowing he’d have to lick the blood off of his lips. He runs his tongue along them anyway, just to be sure. “I don’t want you here with me. I want you back up there, doing what you do best, being a great doctor and saving lives. I want you to find something better and go back to living.”

Bones snorts at that. He rests his forehead against Jim’s and they stare at one another, Bones’ chest heaving, Jim trying to make his do the same. “That time has passed,” he snaps. “Look at me, Jim.”

Jim does. He can really only take in Bones’ face from this view, but it’s enough to see the scars marring it. One almost completely through the eye, missing it by mere millimeters; across the bridge of his nose; a deep and noticeable enough one stretching from ear to upper lip, travelling across the cheek, glaring amongst the smaller ones surrounding it. Jim suspects his remains looked similar to that before they’d been touched up, for a public funeral, no doubt. 

“Those don’t matter,” Jim says, reaching under Bones’ shirt and running his hands along his sides. He can feel the scars there as well, can feel more when he moves to cover the front, digging in just a little, not wanting to let go. His are gone now.

Wordlessly Jim starts to remove the garment, and Bones lets him, not aiding but not resisting, either. It’s in perfect condition, not at all resembling what he last remembers. The flesh underneath is the complete opposite and Jim just falls into it, trailing his mouth gently across every imperfection he never had the chance to learn or share. Bones wraps his arms around Jim in response, riding up his own shirt, and Jim pulls back long enough for it to be removed and tossed to the ground.

Bones cocks an eyebrow at Jim’s bare chest. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, before diving back in, finding his hands wandering over seamless skin, taking it all back in. 

Jim finds himself being the first one to break the contact, pulling back as he gasps for breath, a sensation he’d entirely forgotten. He shouldn’t be experiencing this but his body feels warm again, his nerve ends tingling, and genuinely aroused for the first time in far too long. It’s a strange feeling but he wastes no time in going back to Bones, pressing his erection against him and starting to grind against Bones’ own.

Bones bites back a moan as he embraces Jim’s body, pulling him closer, tighter, and then he lets completely loose, unable to let go, and Jim can’t, either. At some point they’re able to make it, down, and it doesn’t matter that it’s an open field in the slightest.

When Bones collapses on top of Jim’s body he just rests there, not caring about the mess, and Jim revels in it, reaching up to bring Bones’ head back down to his own and just press up against one another, their bodies and nothing else, leaving Bones’ scarred back bare and open and he doesn’t touch it because it isn’t necessary. When they break he breathes in, deep, feeling the air fill him, and he shuts his eyes and guides them both on their sides and he wraps his free arm around Bones’ body as best he can and just pulls him tighter, nuzzling into the crook between neck and shoulder while Bones absentmindedly traces light patterns on Jim’s body.

-

Jim opens his eyes to find himself staring out at nothing. It’s day again and all he can see are open fields. He sits up, dully, and looks around for his clothes, strewn about not too far from his current position. He blinks at them for a moment, expressionless, before using his hands to push himself back into a standing position and put them back on.

He rubs at his eyes blearily and looks around him before shrugging his shoulders and sitting back down, plucking at the grass and twirling it around between his fingers.


End file.
